


Lucidity

by sadsparties



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Disappointment, Gen, Mental Instability, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-21 00:24:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the chaos of battle, two great minds attempt to share a few seconds of clarity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lucidity

The Corinthe was a shadow of its former self. Where tables used to be, there were now barrels of gunpowder, the floor a mess of discarded rifles, stones, and wounded men. In one corner, a bear of a man was bound and gagged, while a youth with a naked sword stood guard. Behind the counter, an octogenarian was seated, pale faced and head bowed. His lips moved without a sound, and he rocked back and forth like a drunken man.

Many insurgents tried to talk to the old man. When they did, he would look at them but keep silent. He had the air of a sheep, but one whose mind was in a tempest. Soon enough, his eyes would sweep over other things. His face bore no expression, and to all the revolutionaries’ pleas, he listened but did not hear.

"Father Mabeuf."

He stopped mid-rotation and turned to see owner of the voice. It was a young man like all of them, except that his face looked like he had seen the wonders of the future. An apron around his waist was covered with blood, and his hand wiped new stains there. Two pistols were secured in his belt.

"Father Mabeuf,” the youth repeated, “Courfeyrac tells me that that is your name?" The old man did not respond, but the young one kept on. “Are you perhaps the same Mabeuf who authored the  _Flora of the Environs of Cauteretz_? The one with colored plates?"

At this, there was a sudden jerk. Father Mabeuf turned to face the young man, his eyebrows raised in surprise. The expression on his face seemed like he was seeing with his eyes for the first time. He looked like a man whose long-held secret has just been found out, and wished to confess everything to the first person that questioned him. With this reaction successfully extracted, the young man continued his query, his voice getting livelier as he listed the old man’s accomplishments.

"I have heard of you from the Horticultural Society!” he exclaimed, “It is said that you succeeded in producing seedling pears as savory as the pears in St. Germain, and that you cultivated the October Mirabelle through interbreeding. I’ve passed by the October Mirabelles countless times while attending lectures in the Jardin des Plantes. Had I known that it was cultivated by one our our own, I would have visited you at once! Is it true that you have also been cultivating the  _Indigofera tinctoria_? That was an endeavor that I thought of exploring myself, but between reading for exams and shifts at the hospital, there was simply no time to tend my own garden. Speaking of reading, I heard that you owned a rare copy of a Diogenus Laertius?"

Throughout this sudden erruption of frenzied glee from the young man, Father Mabeuf’s glazed eyes had become gradually clearer. In this bespectacled youth, he saw a true comrade, a lover of books and the natural sciences such as himself. As Combeferre’s voice blocked out the occasional exchange of shots, Father Mabeuf imagined himself in another room, one filled with flowers and not bullets, one that smelled of books and not gunpowder, one where he ate more than two eggs a day. But when the lad had mentioned the Diogenes Laertius, the vision had faded in an instant. He was reminded, harshly but unintentionally, of the loss of his prized Laertius, of his indigo flower bed, his Flora plates, his seat at Saint-Sulpice, his brother, his inheritance, his friendship with the Pontmercy boy, his book collection. The shocking cycle of loss and hope and loss had sent him inwardly reeling. When the dizziness stopped, he had forgotten where he was.

The young man waited for Mabeuf’s reply patiently. He had seen the spark of recognition when he mentioned the  _Flora_  and simply had to shower compliments to a Frenchman with a major contribution to the sciences.  For a while, he thought that Father Mabeuf was coming out of his muddled state, but his reply came out in a guttural voice that could only have come from the pits of despair.

"My plates have become stewpans."

—-

Combeferre did not know what to say. When he heard from Courfeyrac that the old man who joined them in the Rue Lesdiguieres was called Mabeuf, he had almost left his post. Mabeuf’s name was whispered occasionally, perhaps a little reverently, in the lecture circles that he attended. Here was a man of God who actively pursued the natural sciences, a rare combination especially in his old age. When he heard that he might be a conventionist, his excitement grew. More than once, Combeferre asked a passing insurgent and inquired if he was still inside the wine shop. As soon as Enjolras gave the nod, he left.

When the old man suddenly spoke of kitchen implements, Combeferre knew that he was far gone. He had expected a stimulating, though fleeting, discussion on plants and politics, not a creature past broken. His shoulders slumped lower and lower as he watched Mabeuf speak to himself, look at and past random objects, bow his head, then lift it as if remembering an important fact. Such is the degradation brought on by poverty. Even the minds capable of spearheading progress are not immune to afflictions to the soul.

Combeferre’s hand stalled at the reassuring touch he was about to give. No amount of holding could bring him back from those dark depths. Instead, he bade the guard to keep watch, tried to catch Mabeuf’s eye one last time, and left the wine shop. Later, he would see him fall from the barricade, his aged head pale and sad, gazing at the sky.


	2. Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He may die here."

Combeferre leaned over the table and held the shroud to see the old man’s face. Death had come quickly for Father Mabeuf. Combeferre was tending to a wounded insurgent when a specter snatched the flag from Enjolras and climbed up the barricade. He had watched him fall, eagle-spread and facing the sky, and knew before his head hit the ground that he was dead, for he was dead long before. Now, they were back in the very same room, all chance of ever talking gone.

“Did you know him?” Enjolras crept beside him. Combeferre sent him a questioning look.

“Courfeyrac and Feuilly hold the barricade for now. I have this moment.”

At that, Combeferre shook his head. “No, I did not know this man, but I may well could have,” he brooded, “Our circles were the same.”

Enjolras nodded. “Courfeyrac has told me that he is no regicide.”

“That old man a king-killer? My momes would find their mother before that happens.”

They turned to the owner of the voice. Gavroche stood there with the air of owning the establishment. He scooted past them, laid his hands on the table, and studied the old man’s profile.

“Did you know him, boy?” asked Enjolras. Instead of answering, Gavroche brought his face closer to Mabeuf. It was a tragedy of sorts, to see this meeting of the young and the old, youth staring at Death’s eye, not in fear but in fascination. He saw it then — a lonely bench, a sleeping man, a confrontation, a surrender, and a flick of the hand to finish the job. He acted before he could think why. Then the old man rasped in his sleep. He had looked so peaceful. Suddenly, he knew what to do.

“Be careful, Gavroche.” Combeferre broke through his thoughts, “You will upset the table.”

“Ha! I can lie on it if I want to and it will have me!” he cried. “Wood is nothing to a wolf.”

He turned to Mabeuf again. “Aye, I knew him. He was a sheep going under and I got him something to pull himself up.” He moved away from the table and frowned to himself. “Fat lot o’ good it’s done.” 

He harrumphed one last time and declared the matter resolved. Before he left, Gavroche went to the bound man in the corner and sneered. He tapped the bulk on his right hip to show that the musket will be put to good use. “This wolf will have you soon,” he announced as he left the room with an attempted heavy stride. 

Javert had remained impassive.

“He may die here,” Combeferre said to no one. He was listening to Gavroche’s steps but was remembering another child. This one was of the same age but far less healthy. They opened him up and found mud on his stomach. It was for children like him that they fought for, that they would never have to eat the paint off walls to fill their stomachs, and yet here was Gavroche, a child, one of their number but one who already fights for them. What a world where children have to take up arms because adults are no longer enough to champion for them.

Enjolras took the shroud from Combeferre and arranged it to cover the old man’s face. Then he took Combeferre’s hands which had balled into fists, pried them apart, and held them solemnly. “Then he will have died free.”

Combeferre held the fierceness of Enjolras’s gaze and listened to the words that were not words. He remembered all the conversations that were never spoken, that would have less meaning if they spoke it aloud. Their thoughts were in another plane that only they could see, and they both held it sacred. Combeferre knew then that if he were to meet his end here, he would not only die free, he would die a friend.

A slight squeeze of the hand told Enjolras that he had understood.

Their chief then turned to Javert, “It will be your turn presently.”


End file.
